Read Online The House of Lost Souls by F. G. Cottam - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: F. G. Cottam
Ads: Link
England?’
‘Educate me,’ Mason said.
‘There was a great deal of social unrest.’
‘I know about the Jarrow March. The General Strike.’
‘Wheatley drove a London bus during that. And wore a pistol on his belt to combat the Bolshevik menace.’
‘He sounds like a wanker.’
‘He was a toff,’ Seaton said. ‘If you’ve read your Orwell, and I’m guessing you have, you’ll know that the judiciary and the police had their hands full in those days suppressing a very large and sometimes very militant working class. The government was unnerved by what was going on in Russia in the years after the Bolsheviks murdered the Tsar and his family. They were frightened by the pithead shop stewards in Wales and the north, tough men pissed off after four years of combat in the trenches, only to come home and discover none of the promises concerning social injustice were going to be kept. These were the years when a peacetime army confronted striking dockers in Liverpool and Tilbury and Chatham with their bayonets fixed. If you were a toff, in the years between the wars, the law didn’t really touch you. The law had its hands full. You were outside it, irrelevant to it, really. And this state of affairs led to some very decadent behaviour.’
‘Cocaine and caviar?’
‘A bit more extreme than that,’ Seaton said. ‘Satanism.’
Mason raised an eyebrow. ‘And this Wheatley character was involved?’
‘He almost bankrupted the wine business supporting his recreational habits, including a mistress he set up in a London flat, with the obligatory accounts at Harrods and Fortnum & Mason. Then, after his wife divorced him, he remarried. His second wife supported him financially until the novels started to pay. That happened when he began to write about black magic and its English practitioners, a group he called followers of the Left Hand Path. He wrote his first bestseller in 1934. And he never looked back.’
‘And he was a satanist?’
Seaton hesitated. He cleared his throat with a cough. ‘Wheatley knew a great deal about black magic ritual. He certainly knew black magicians. He was an intimate of Aleister Crowley. But he always denied being personally involved in the rituals, in the ceremonies. I think he was lying.’
‘Your point being?’
‘He was a friend of Klaus Fischer. He advised Fischer on the purchase of his property on the Isle of Wight. He may even have acted as his intermediary in the sale. He seems to have had a way about him when it came to striking a deal. He was a frequent guest of Fischer’s, so it’s a safe assumption he was invited to the parties thrown there. Dennis Wheatley was Fischer’s calling card on London society. And he was the reason, ten years ago, that I visited the Fischer house myself.’
The two men were silent for a while. Seaton felt tense, despite the alcohol. He kept expecting to hear a scream from the top of the stairs. He kept expecting ‘Tam Lin’ or ‘Imagine’ to start seeping out of Mason’s lacquered stereo speakers. ‘Imagine’ would have a sardonic, ragtime lilt. He glanced down at his wristwatch. It was a little after midnight.
‘To get back to my original question,’ Mason said. ‘Are we dealing here with ghosts?’
Seaton stifled a yawn. He was tired, as well as tense, as well as scared and intimidated by the prospect of what he thought he was going to have to do. Quietly, he said, ‘Why? Do you believe in ghosts, Captain Mason?’
‘I’ve sat here in my own home tonight,’ Mason said, ‘listening to a lecture in English social history delivered by a Paddy drinking my Scotch. At this moment, given the circumstances, I think I’m ready to believe anything.’
Seaton smiled to himself.
‘I’ve got a story to tell you,’ Mason said. ‘I’m going to tell it to you, because it might be important in how things develop between you and me. And then you’re going to tell me about your visit to the Fischer house. Aren’t you, Mr
‘Educate me,’ Mason said.
‘There was a great deal of social unrest.’
‘I know about the Jarrow March. The General Strike.’
‘Wheatley drove a London bus during that. And wore a pistol on his belt to combat the Bolshevik menace.’
‘He sounds like a wanker.’
‘He was a toff,’ Seaton said. ‘If you’ve read your Orwell, and I’m guessing you have, you’ll know that the judiciary and the police had their hands full in those days suppressing a very large and sometimes very militant working class. The government was unnerved by what was going on in Russia in the years after the Bolsheviks murdered the Tsar and his family. They were frightened by the pithead shop stewards in Wales and the north, tough men pissed off after four years of combat in the trenches, only to come home and discover none of the promises concerning social injustice were going to be kept. These were the years when a peacetime army confronted striking dockers in Liverpool and Tilbury and Chatham with their bayonets fixed. If you were a toff, in the years between the wars, the law didn’t really touch you. The law had its hands full. You were outside it, irrelevant to it, really. And this state of affairs led to some very decadent behaviour.’
‘Cocaine and caviar?’
‘A bit more extreme than that,’ Seaton said. ‘Satanism.’
Mason raised an eyebrow. ‘And this Wheatley character was involved?’
‘He almost bankrupted the wine business supporting his recreational habits, including a mistress he set up in a London flat, with the obligatory accounts at Harrods and Fortnum & Mason. Then, after his wife divorced him, he remarried. His second wife supported him financially until the novels started to pay. That happened when he began to write about black magic and its English practitioners, a group he called followers of the Left Hand Path. He wrote his first bestseller in 1934. And he never looked back.’
‘And he was a satanist?’
Seaton hesitated. He cleared his throat with a cough. ‘Wheatley knew a great deal about black magic ritual. He certainly knew black magicians. He was an intimate of Aleister Crowley. But he always denied being personally involved in the rituals, in the ceremonies. I think he was lying.’
‘Your point being?’
‘He was a friend of Klaus Fischer. He advised Fischer on the purchase of his property on the Isle of Wight. He may even have acted as his intermediary in the sale. He seems to have had a way about him when it came to striking a deal. He was a frequent guest of Fischer’s, so it’s a safe assumption he was invited to the parties thrown there. Dennis Wheatley was Fischer’s calling card on London society. And he was the reason, ten years ago, that I visited the Fischer house myself.’
The two men were silent for a while. Seaton felt tense, despite the alcohol. He kept expecting to hear a scream from the top of the stairs. He kept expecting ‘Tam Lin’ or ‘Imagine’ to start seeping out of Mason’s lacquered stereo speakers. ‘Imagine’ would have a sardonic, ragtime lilt. He glanced down at his wristwatch. It was a little after midnight.
‘To get back to my original question,’ Mason said. ‘Are we dealing here with ghosts?’
Seaton stifled a yawn. He was tired, as well as tense, as well as scared and intimidated by the prospect of what he thought he was going to have to do. Quietly, he said, ‘Why? Do you believe in ghosts, Captain Mason?’
‘I’ve sat here in my own home tonight,’ Mason said, ‘listening to a lecture in English social history delivered by a Paddy drinking my Scotch. At this moment, given the circumstances, I think I’m ready to believe anything.’
Seaton smiled to himself.
‘I’ve got a story to tell you,’ Mason said. ‘I’m going to tell it to you, because it might be important in how things develop between you and me. And then you’re going to tell me about your visit to the Fischer house. Aren’t you, Mr
Similar Books
